


Meditations

by lildogie



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Consent Play, Dom/sub, Drabble, Other, Safewords, casteplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:31:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lildogie/pseuds/lildogie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A couple (unconnected) drabble meditations on top/Dom Equius, one vanilla, one Dom/sub with casteplay and consent play (what is that, raspberry and white chocolate mousse?). Insert whoever you like as his partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Equius is a larval barkbeast, so afraid of accidentally hurting you he has to be coaxed and cajoled all the way onto the mating platform. He doesn’t want to put his weight on you, sweats and protests as you wrap your arms and legs around him, kiss everything you can reach, show him how good the contact feels, finally get him to lower himself gingerly down and see he won’t crush you and the skin on skin is glorious.

He’s scared to put his hands on you, and even at his gentlest, you’re immobilized by his grip. You don’t tell him, but there’s a rush of adrenaline at being controlled this way, your body his to manipulate. You’re not frightened because he’s watching you so carefully for any sign of displeasure, constantly asking if this is good, if you’re all right. The answer is yes until you’re completely incoherent, trilling and arching and grasping him to you so he knows not to stop.

The next night there are bruises you don’t remember getting, and you have to shower him in reassurance, pet him and tell him how flushed you are for him, how much you enjoyed yesterday. He still needs to expiate his guilt by pampering you, and you’re all right with that... as long as it helps him. When he’s not looking, you touch the marks his fingers left and shudder in remembrance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dom/sub, casteplay, consent play (with safewords).

Equius knows the caste system was wrong, doesn't actually want to subjugate anyone, but still, in a part of himself he struggles with, wants to act out that power fantasy in a way that won't hurt anyone. He was filled with shame the first time he admitted it to you, and couldn't believe you when you said it was alright. He didn't talk to you for nights afterwards. 

Eventually there was a tentative line of blue text on your screen, asking how. You explained to him how it could be safe, how it could be fun, what _you_ could get out of it. That was the hardest for him to accept, despite the ways he'd dealt with the colder bloods. He still doesn't fully believe you, has to be reassured of it each time, but he's getting there. 

In your hive he shoves you face first against the wall (the way he shields your face is calculated to look like coincidence). A muscular arm goes around your neck, pulling your head back. His lips tickle your ear as he murmurs sweet nothings about your place on the hemospectrum, the loathsome heat of your body and how soon he'll be buried in it. 

You scrabble at the wall but can't push away, at the arm like an iron band around your throat, but can't budge it. He rips your shirt (you wore an old one) and roughly stimulates your grub scars, narrating your own reactions to you in a growl. You whimper and struggle uselessly as your pants are shredded (you made them special) and he curls one large hand around your thigh. You fight, but you can't stop him from spreading your legs, forcing his knees in between to stop you closing them again, all the while telling you how he plans to use you, how you're chattel fit for nothing but the amusement of your betters, if that. 

You're spread-eagled against the wall, fluids running down your legs and his, and he taunts you with that as you hurl back accusations and abuse. Your protests are hollow, given the lie by the body that knows its place better than you do, that is eagerly readying itself to receive him. He prompts you for your safeword and you just chirp, then hiss insults. He jerks your head back, bites your ear as his bulge snakes up your right thigh and down your left. The prompt comes again, rumbling through his chest, and you snarl out the green light. 

You're not ready for him, slick as you both are, and your groan turns to a thin, reedy cry as he grasps your hip and pushes all the way in. The pressure would take you off your feet if not for his arm around your neck, bearing down on your shoulders. You are just a vessel, can't _be_ anything else when your body's so hard tasked just to make space for him. It has no choice—you're held fast, helpless, and the comfort of a lowblood is of no consequence to him. 

By the time he finds a rhythm, you're sobbing. It hurts, it hurts and you're powerless to stop it, small and warm and vulnerable to his will. Panic blooms in your chest, you claw at his arm. He presses his lips to your throat and whispers that you belong to him, that you are his prized possession, that all you have to do is obey and he will keep you well. Your body jerks taut in the confines of his arms. Your slurry paints the wall, the floor. 

He croons to you how well you're doing. Yes, doesn't submission feel _right_ , lowblood? Your body knows all it wants is to be held down and filled with cooler flesh. If you'd just accept that, you'd be so much happier... 

You moan out a protest as he rolls into you harder. Your defenses shattered by orgasm, there's nothing resistant left in you and he slides in easier, hitting you deeper and deeper inside. You can't stop the tears, you can't stop him, and it hurts, it hurts, but the pleasure is so intense you can't even try to care. He prompts you again and it takes three tries for you to gasp out the green light. 

He takes hours with you, makes you beg for mercy he won't give. Makes you lick his bulge back into readiness after he spends himself in you the first time, your nook sore but twitching in anticipation of being used again. 

When it's over, you're soaked in slurry and tears, a shivering, exhausted wreck. He's full of condescending praise as he cleans you, what a good little lowblood pet you were, you should always behave so well. 

In the recuperacoon he tucks you against his chest. He whispers that he loves you like it's a secret, that he would never hurt you, never let anyone coerce you into anything, kill them if they tried. You tell him you know it, you trust him, you love him, he's never hurt you. You soothe him with your hands and soft kisses, tell him you're safe, you know you are because you have him, and so is he. You make sure he's peacefully asleep before you follow.


End file.
